Close Our Eyes
by Tonight.At.Noon
Summary: [Misfits/Harry Potter Crossover] On his eleventh birthday, Simon Bellamy receives a letter from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. After realising it isn't a joke, Simon is thrust into the world of magic. Here, he finds a group of misfit friends who are always (well, sometimes) willing to help save the day whenever things go wrong. [Rated for language future situations]


**A/N:** I have a strange feeling nobody will read this story, but just in case, let me explain some things. I, like many others, love Harry Potter. I also love Misfits (but especially Simon and his relationship with Alisha). So, I thought, why not combine them. Strangely enough, the universes blend fairly well together. That being said, I've changed a lot of things around to make room for our foul-mouthed friends.

This will be a multi-chapter story with a few time jumps here and there. It would be far too complicated to try writing some chapters for each year. Because of this, I'll be skipping over some. Each year I do cover will have between two and three chapters dedicated to it. I'm not sure how quickly I'll be able to update. If you go to my profile, you should see I write for a multitude of different fandoms. This complicates my writing schedule.

This story takes place in today's time. The events of the _Cursed Child_ never happened. I'm sure I've changed so many other things, but those are the two I feel are most important.

I really enjoyed writing this first chapter, and I really hope if anybody does decide to read the story that you enjoy it as well.

* * *

 **Close Our Eyes | Simon Bellamy's Magical Awakening**

* * *

Simon Bellamy always knew he was different. Things would happen around him when his emotions ran high—things he could never explain. Like the time the school bully, a big oaf of a boy who looked more like a professional sumo wrestler than a first year, tried chasing him home. Only he couldn't, because his feet, somehow, had become glued to the pavement. Or, in year three, when his teacher, Miss Sally, started yelling at him for knocking over a vase of flowers from her boyfriend. He hadn't done it, and just as she began screaming, the true perpetrator of the crime's arm flew in the air and he confessed, slapping his hands over his mouth afterwards, unsure of why he had outed himself.

He always knew he was different. Not special—only his mother called him special, and even she didn't mean it in the kind way. Just different. Strange. Unnatural. Something about him wasn't . . . _right_. And around the time of his eleventh birthday, he finally understood exactly what that something was.

Sunlight streamed through his open window, hitting his drowsy eyes in such a way that he startled awake. A heat wave was making its steady way through London. The A.C. in their flat was busted and his mother's new boyfriend was steadfastly refusing to do anything about it. Panting, Simon sat up and rubbed his eyes. His bedroom was small. Smaller than small, really, but he always told people it was simply _small_. He had a feeling it was meant to be a storage closet, but there was enough room for a twin-sized mattress and hamper for his clothes, so what its original purpose was didn't matter much to his mum. Still, he managed to keep it tidy. Slipping off of the mattress, Simon neatly replaced the bedclothes he had kicked on to the floor in the middle of the hot, sweat-inducing night and grabbed some summer-appropriate clothes to change into.

Neatly folding his pyjamas, the young boy exited his bedroom and stepped over the various objects strewn over the floor of the flat, making his way to the kitchen for breakfast. He loved his mother, as all boys did, but she was a foul caretaker. His youth—his _younger_ youth—had mostly been spent in the arms of various nannies and neighbours. By his ninth birthday, when they had moved deeper into the rough parts of London, these people disappeared and he began learning to take care of himself. He often equated himself, only in his own mind, to Matilda, the main character from Roald Dahl's book of the same name. Yes, he was a _boy_ and no, he did not have magical powers, but he was lonely and, as far as he could tell, unloved.

Simon, having just hit his first big growth spurt two weeks ago, happily stretched his hand into the various cupboards in the kitchen he previously could not reach and pulled out the ingredients needed to make French toast, a simple recipe he enjoyed immensely. As always, he made enough for the three inhabitants of the flat and then some, as he never knew if his mother would remember to feed him for lunch and dinner. Oftentimes, he would finish the leftovers from the morning's breakfast throughout the day. He didn't mind. In fact, he quite liked it. It made him feel outrageously independent. He only wished there were the proper ingredients for anything other than five-minute breakfast recipes. He was beginning to grow tired of only eating things with eggs in them.

As usual, the scent of food brought his mother and her boyfriend— _Steve_ was it?—out of bed. They sat down at the two-person table while Simon took his place on the only bare countertop and ate in silence. Simon only remembered it was his birthday when, at exactly half-past nine, he hopped off of the counter and headed downstairs for the post. He greeted the postman happily and took the letters and bills from him, scanning the return addresses on each one as he made his way back up the stairs. He was skimming the last letter when he reached the door to his flat, stopping dead in his tracks when he noticed, scrawled very neatly and professionally in green ink, his name.

 _Mr. S. Bellamy,_

it read,

 _The Closet by the Door,_

 _18 Cricketfield Road,_

 _London Borough of Hackney,_

 _London_

He had never gotten a letter before in his life. Not from his grandparents (who, he had come to realise over the years, didn't know he existed). Not from his mother or any of her various partners. Simon quickly flipped the thick, smooth envelope over. It was made from fine parchment, its colour a worn shade of white. On the back, the flap was sealed with red wax, a large, capital _H_ in its centre. Above, the same _H_ emblazoned with a lion, a snake, some creature that could have been either a racoon or badger, and a stunning eagle. There were words written in what he assumed to be Latin scribbled inside a flag. It looked quite like a coat of arms, Simon thought.

Excitedly, Simon dropped the other letters to the ground and carefully, so as to not destroy the brilliant seal, opened the envelope. Two pages of parchment fell into Simon's trembling fingers. Tucking the envelope underneath his arm, he began to read:

 _Hogwarts School_

 _of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

Simon stopped reading, deflated. It wasn't a birthday card. What cruel mind would play this sort of a joke on him? School of Witchcraft and Wizardry? There was no such thing.

But Simon Bellamy was a curious boy. So, he read on:

 _Headmistress: Minerva McGonagall_

 _(Order of Merlin, First Class)_

 _Dear Mr. Bellamy,_

 _We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Pamona Sprout_

 _Deputy Headmistress_

Returning the sheet to the envelope, Simon, frowning all the while, read the other page. This was even stranger than the first. It listed odd book titles by authors of whom Simon had never heard. It told Simon he needed robes and a pointed hat, a cauldron and a wand.

Simon finished reading the second page, standing outside his flat still, and forced himself to think rationally. Clearly, this was somebody's idea of a joke. He would laugh if the world this person had created didn't sound so utterly magnificent. What had the first sheet said? _We expect your owl by no later than July 31_. That was in one week's time. Ha! The idea of sending an owl to accept a position at a school for witches and wizards.

 _Really_ , he thought to himself as he finally made his way inside with other letters, _magnificent_.

* * *

Over the next few nights, Simon dreamed of this place, Hogwarts. He dreamed he owned a wand, and when he waved it magical things happened. He always awoke smiling after these dreams, only to have that smile wiped from his face when he remembered Hogwarts wasn't real and he would be needing his school uniform hemmed soon so he could return to the local boys' school. He had decided not to mention the letter to his mother. Instead, it was hiding beneath his pillow, fuel for his sleeping mind.

On the morning of the 31st of July, Simon, at nine-thirty in the morning, walked to fetch the post. He was still wrapped in the fading memory of last night's dream—he had been flying on a broomstick, gliding over London—when he opened the door, too wrapped up to notice there was a large, looming shadow cast across the pavement. He lazily bent to pick up the few scraps of fliers the postman had left, leafed through them, and turned to walk back inside. Hand on the doorknob, Simon paused, his brain catching up with his eyes. He twisted his neck slowly. Before him stood a giant. Well, maybe not a giant. But whatever it was, it was too large to be an ordinary human being. It looked to be a _he_. Covering his chin was a scruffy, long beard that was coarse and scattered with grey amidst the dark brown. His hair curled down past his shoulders and his eyebrows almost met directly above his nose. Simon did his best not to jump from fright.

"You mus' be Mr. Bellamy." The creature's voice boomed, like there was a megaphone pressed to his lips. "Well . . ." he drew out, waiting for Simon to either confirm or deny.

Simon could not speak. He was too much in shock. Instead, he nodded once, a skittish sort of movement that managed to cause a crick in his neck.

The giant of a man laughed a barking laugh. "'Course ya are. Rubeus Hagrid, pleased to meet ya. Ya can call me Hagrid." He held out a bread-loaf-shaped hand. Simon, too nervous to do anything else, shook it, wincing in anticipation of a broken finger. His fingers, however, stayed perfectly in tact, and the man released his hand. "Any chance I can come inside?" he asked, pointing to the door to Simon's flat.

Simon didn't know why, but he let the man in. Choosing to ignore his clear advantage in the height department, Rubeus Hagrid appeared perfectly harmless. He giggled as he stepped through the doorway, pointing out trinkets around the place. And he carried a pink umbrella. To eleven-year-old Simon, those were signs that the ginormous man was as innocent and gentle as they come. The pair made their way up the steps to Simon's flat.

"Uh, my mum," Simon said, bending his neck so far backwards the back of his head rested on the top of his spine, "she might freak out."

Hagrid smiled wistfully, his dark eyes twinkling. "Muggles," he said. Simon's face screwed in confusion. "All the same."

And with that, Simon shook off his fleeting uncertainty and opened the door.

Perhaps letting this strange man in was a bad idea. Horrible. _Freak out_ was an understatement. His mum actually fainted. Eyes rolled back and everything, landing with a thump on the floor.

"Yeh, well," said Hagrid nervously, "tha' can sometimes happen."

Simon rushed over to see if she was alright while Hagrid rubbed his sausage fingers together, looking almost paler than his unconscious mother. Steve (Simon thinks it's Steve; he's still not entirely sure) had gone for the day already, thankfully, otherwise Hagrid may have had to fend off a knife attack from somebody Simon was sure had been to prison countless times.

Remaining by his mother's side for a minute, Simon breathed a heavy sigh of relief when her eyelids started fluttering. "Mum," he said softly. "Mum, are you alright?"

She mumbled incoherently as she sat up. "I—I think so." Looking over Simon, her eyes grew wide as she spotted Hagrid still in their flat. "What is that?"

Simon didn't have the full answer to his mother's question, but he said, "Hagrid," matter-of-factly, hoping him knowing the giant's name would quell her fears.

"And what is he doing here?"

Simon was at a loss for that one. He turned his head, hoping Hagrid himself could supply the answer.

"Oh," he sputtered, taking thumping footsteps towards them, "I am 'ere to discuss Simon Bellamy's acceptance into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

* * *

According to Hagrid, he was a half-blood. His father, who had died before Simon was born, was a wizard. A good one at that, apparently, though Simon didn't exactly know what separated the good wizards from the bad. Hagrid mentioned something about his father passing his OWLs and NEWTs with flying colours and going on to do wonderful things for the wizarding world, but by this point his mum had fainted again, so Hagrid stopped talking.

While his mother rested, Simon came back into the sitting room, his blood coursing like fire through his veins. He wanted to know more about everything. He needed to.

"I guess she di'n't know 'bout yer dad," Hagrid said quietly, nodding towards his mother's bedroom.

"I . . . I guess n-not," Simon stuttered. He swallowed and took in a deep breath. "So, what does this all mean?"

Hagrid offered him a soft smile, and suddenly he looked about as harmless as a butterfly. "It means yer a wizard," he said. "In a month's time, yeh'll pack your things and make yer way to King's Cross station where a train will take yeh to Hogwarts. There, yeh'll learn all abou' bein' a good wizard. Yeh'll be sorted into one of four houses, make friends. Yeh'll love it. 'Ere," Hagrid reached into his pocket and pulled out a torn bit of paper and a pen. He wrote something on the scrap and handed it to a shaking Simon. "When yer ready, I'll help you shop for yer things. We'll grab yeh a bran' new copy of _Hogwarts: A History_ and it'll teach yeh all you need to know before coming."

Simon stared at the piece of paper. It had a telephone number on it. "Who says I'm going?" he wondered aloud. "All of this, it sounds mad. And expensive."

"Like I said," Hagrid remarked, "yer dad was a great wizard. He earned his keep. Yeh'll wan' for nothing. An' I know it sounds mad, but it isn't. Think 'bout it—you ever noticed strange things happenin' 'round yeh yeh couldn't explain?"

Yes. Lots of things. But _magic_?

"Phone when yeh've made up yer mind," Hagrid offered, standing.

"Are you leaving?" Simon asked, getting up too. He still had so many questions. "You can't leave yet."

"Duty calls," Hagrid said, smiling down at Simon. "Yeh'll be fine. Don' be afraid to call, yeh hear?" Simon agreed, walking with Hagrid to the front door. "Oh, and, uh, don' mention this to anyone. Muggles, they're still not ready to know 'bout us yet."

"Muggles?"

Hagrid's cheeks lifted in another smile. "Non-magic folk," he confided.

Standing in the doorframe, Simon watched the half-giant walk away, startling when, after a quick blink, he disappeared. Walking back inside, Simon couldn't help but realise just how like Matilda he truly was.

* * *

A week following Hagrid's visit, Simon went to a telephone box and called the number he had been given. This was, of course, without his mother's permission. She was still very convinced this Hogwarts business was all an elaborate hoax led by the government. No matter how many times Simon tried to tell her of all the weird things he seemed capable of doing, she shook her head and vehemently denied the existence of magic. But Simon knew—he could feel the generations of magical blood running through him and excitedly phoned Hagrid, hoping to get his school supplies as soon as possible.

Two days later, Hagrid collected Simon out front while his mum was on a food run. They took the underground to central London where Hagrid led Simon to a pub called "The Leaky Cauldron." Inside was much like a regular pub, only there was a cloth sweeping the remnants of nuts off of the tables with no human aid and somebody was lighting a candle at a far booth with no match. Being the early hours of the afternoon, there weren't that many customers, so Hagrid decided the two of them should share lunch before trekking into the place Hagrid called "Diagon Alley."

"Hagrid! What a surprise seeing you here." Simon watched a handsome, tall man make his over to their table. His eyes caught Simon's and he smiled invitingly. "Who's this?"

"Neville, meet Simon Bellamy." Hagrid flourished his hand in Simon's direction. "I'm 'ere to get him his things."

The smile on Neville's face slipped slightly, his eyes growing wide with wonder. "Not Martin Bellamy's son?" He looked at Simon, then back at Hagrid.

"The very same," Hagrid responded, smiling giddily. "The second time I've brough' a famous eleven-year-old in 'ere."

Simon's interest piqued. "Who was the first?" he asked, ignoring the _famous_ part.

Hagrid shook his head. "Long story, me boy. Far too long. Anyway," he chirped, clapping his beefy hands together. "Ow's Hannah?"

"Good," Neville said, his features softening. "Forcing me to do as much as I can before I have to leave for school. Can I get you two anything?"

"See anything on the menu, Simon?" Hagrid asked, pointing to a sign above the bar counter.

Simon craned his neck. All of the items on the menu sounded normal enough, except maybe the pickled eel. He decided on the Soup House Leaky, crossing his fingers it turned out to be tasty. It would be the first time in a while he ate something fresh for lunch.

* * *

"Neville Longbottom's going to be yer Herbology professor when yeh get to Hogwarts," Hagrid mentioned as they stepped through the brick archway into Diagon Alley.

For a moment, Simon didn't respond. He was too captivated by the sights. To the right across the street there was a shop titled "Eeylops Owl Emporium," and just beyond that there was another with a sign reading "Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C." There were people bustling about, some with children of differing sizes, some without. They wore funny clothes and pointed hats. At least two were carrying brooms that didn't look like they were used for sweeping floors. Hagrid pushed Simon's shoulder to get him moving again and took him to a place called Gringotts Wizarding Bank where they grabbed a handful of funny-sounding coins from a vault belonging to his deceased father.

"What's a herbology professor?" Simon asked after finishing up in the first shop, inside which Simon got measured for robes.

Hagrid laughed. "Yeh'll find out soon enough. Simply put, it's a class yeh'll take for five years all abou' magical plants."

"Ah," Simon said, pretending as they walked along Diagon Alley that he did not have a million more questions he wished to ask.

After grabbing his books and cauldron and even purchasing a small black and white kitten he was promised would act as his best friend and companion, it was time for the bit Simon was most excited about: The wand. Hagrid, not able to fit inside the narrow building that was Ollivanders, waited outside while Simon was handed wands made of different woods. Ollivander spoke the whole while, telling him stories of his father that Simon felt should make his heart hurt, but mainly made his eyes widen with fascination.

"Here," Ollivander said, handing him a shorter wand made from a dark wood. Its grip was nice, and when Simon took it in his hands, he suddenly felt . . . whole. "Black walnut," Ollivander commented. "Tricky wood, but the unicorn hair will make it extremely loyal, don't you worry."

"What's tricky about black walnut?" Simon asked, closely observing the wand.

Ollivander shrugged his frail shoulders. "It's . . . how should I say this . . . quite aware of the inner conflicts of its owner. It relies on honesty to work properly. Any hint of deception, either towards yourself or others, and the wand will begin to lose power."

Fear sank into Simon's belly. He wasn't a habitual liar, but what if, following his arrival at Hogwarts, he became one? His wand would hate him. He would fail all of his classes.

"I see worry striking your features, young boy. Do not fear. The wand chooses the wizard. If you were not an honest soul, this wand would not have chosen you. Keep that in mind."

Simon handed over seven galleons and exited the store, renewed in his excitement for the coming term. Hagrid had been supplying him with various bits of Hogwarts' history, including tales of a great battle between the greatest Dark wizard of all time and his nemesis, known throughout the wizarding world as The Boy Who Lived. Simon had a sense this was the other famous boy he had referred to earlier, but didn't press the matter. On their way back to the Leaky Cauldron, however, Simon did decide to ask one more question.

"What about my dad made him so famous?"

Hagrid faltered as they walked. "Well . . . he was a great wizard," Hagrid said distantly. "He saved a lot o' lives doing what he did."

This answered nothing. "What did he do?"

"He was an Auror," Hagrid recalled. When Simon's blank expression didn't waver, he explained further, "Which means he hunted and fought Dark wizards."

"Did one of them kill him?"

"Yes," Hagrid said after a momentary, heavy pause. "But still, he was a great Auror. Harry Potter himself said he was one o' the best he 'ad ever seen. Spoke at his memorial service, he did. Cried. He left behind a great legacy, Simon. You shoul' be proud o' him."

The name Harry Potter meant nothing to Simon, but he sounded important. And he was proud. Although he had never met the man, and, until very recently, knew nothing about him, hearing the people in Diagon Alley speak of his father as if he were a fallen hero caused his fatherless heart to swell.

"Thanks, Hagrid," Simon said.

Hagrid patted Simon's head and tapped the bricks on the wall outside the Leaky Cauldron, returning Simon to land of Muggles.

* * *

For the first time in a long while, it was not the sunlight that woke Simon. It was excitement. Groggy, he threw the light blanket off of his body and leapt to his feet. He had hardly slept a wink during the night, but he didn't care. He was going to Hogwarts today.

His mother had tried convincing him to stay, but Simon knew her efforts were half-hearted at best. She had started smiling the closer they got to September 1st. It probably should have crushed him, sent him into a depressed stupor. His own mother didn't care he was leaving. But really, he was too excited to care. He was, after all, Matilda in male form. Magic and all. He didn't need parents.

Hagrid had checked when he dropped him home after their day at Diagon Alley if he had enough Muggle money to take a car to King's Cross. At the time, he didn't, but he spent the following weeks working small jobs around town, earning enough money to get him to Kings Cross and back three times. It was the most money he had possessed at one time in his life, not including the giant vault of money at the wizarding bank in Diagon Alley.

Simon had decided he would sneak out of the house at 9:45 in the morning without waking his mother or Steve (it was definitely Steve; he could hear the name being said loudly in the night over and over). It was for the best, he had decided. He had phoned for a cab last night and all of his things were packed, including his kitten, who he had named Richard III for his favourite monarch in British history. Or, as he supposed he would need to start calling it, Muggle history.

At nine-forty-five sharp, Simon quietly made his way down the steps of his flat with his trunk and Richard's carrier. The books weighed him down, but he was far too giddy to mind the pull in his shoulder. The cabbie asked if he was old enough to be going places by himself, to which Simon nodded, stone-faced. When asked where he was going off to, Simon responded with, "Somewhere new."

King's Cross was a busy station, especially at 10:30 on a Monday morning. People kept knocking into his cart, causing Richard to hiss and swipe through the bars in his carrier. He rushed around, remembering all Hagrid had told him about how to get through to platform 9 3/4. Reaching the barrier between platform's nine and ten with fifteen minutes to spare (the train, he had been warned, left at 11:00 exactly), Simon gave a nervous look around and walked smoothly through the metal. Coming out the other end was like walking into a dream. The train, long and whistling, was there. Students were saying goodbye to their parents and hello to their old friends. Many had owls in cages, but Simon saw a few with cats and even one toad. He was too occupied with how magnificent everything looked to feel sad he had nobody to say goodbye to, or anyone to say hello to.

Someone came to help him with his things and then he was shoved on to the train. He had grabbed his wand, just for some company. He didn't expect to sit with anybody willing to speak to him, and he was excited to start practicing some of the simpler spells he had memorised from the book _Standard Book of Spells_ by Miranda Goshawk. Walking through the crowded compartments, he came to one with only three people in it—one less than all the others he had passed. There were two girls and one boy who all looked to be his age. The boy, with very dark skin and a handsome face, was showing the two girls (one pale with blond hair tied in a ponytail, the other slightly darker with tight, light brown curls) his tattered copy of _Standard Book of Spells_. Simon knocked on the frame, sweat beginning to bead as his nerves jumped.

"Can I join you? It looks like everywhere else is practically full," he said, hoping his voice didn't sound as shaky to them as it did to himself. He was never very confident around strangers.

The boy smiled invitingly. "Sure."

Simon suppressed an answering smile and entered the compartment, taking a seat next to the boy. He lifted one side of his mouth awkwardly at the girls. "Thanks."

"No problem," the boy said. He held out his hand. "I'm Curtis."

"Simon," he responded, taking the hand for a quick shake.

"And this is Kelly," Curtis said, pointing to the paler of the two girls, "and Alisha."

The darker-skinned girl didn't smile like Kelly, but she wouldn't stop looking at him.

"I was just showing them this rotten copy of _Standard Book of Spells_ my mum gave me. Apparently it's been used by every wizard in our family since it was published."

Simon stared at the battered copy in Curtis's hand. His was brand new, but the one Curtis was holding contained so much history. Each wizard and witch in his line had held it since its publication. They had taken it to class and used it to learn new things. How Simon wished he had his father's copy, to hold something that had taught him and pushed him to become the great wizard everyone kept telling Simon he was.

The train let out a loud whistle, and Simon felt the hulking thing move forward. He was leaving London for the first time in his life, heading towards a bright new future in the wizarding world he had been dreaming about since that letter arrived late July. He would miss his mother, of course, as boys often did, but he felt less afraid knowing she wouldn't miss him. And the excitement and anticipation of walking the halls of Hogwarts had his stomach in knots. He was ready for this—for a new life.

"Couldn't you just tap it and put it together again?" The one with the ponytail dragged the tip of her long, burgundy wand against the hard cover. Her accent was thick. She sounded almost as though she were speaking gibberish. "Simple enough."

Curtis shook his head. "Nah, Mum told me there was some spell put on it to stop it from being mended. She said when it's had its fill of being used, it'll fall apart. But until then, it's staying in the family."

The four first years settled into conversation, though Simon tended to keep quiet, only speaking when directly spoken to. The rest of his time was spent trying hard not to look at the tan-skinned girl, Alisha, who had yet to stop staring daggers at him. He didn't know what he had done so wrong, why she was so offended by his presence, but knowing she was watching him made his ghostly white face redden with flashes of blood whenever he caught her blazing green eyes.

When the train had been moving along the tracks for a couple of hours, Simon heard shouting from a compartment a few down from theirs. Somebody was laughing, but nobody else was. Straining his ears, Simon listened for the source of the conflict.

"Alright, alright. But just so you know, I'm the one choosing to leave. Nobody kicked me out," the laughing one said, his Irish twang resonating loudly.

Simon still wasn't sure what had happened, but moments later, somebody was opening the door to their compartment.

"Can I squeeze in here?"

It was the Irish boy. He was tall. So tall Simon would be surprised if he grew any more. Atop his head was a mass of brown curls. Before any of them could speak and answer his question, he had already shoved Simon into Curtis and sat beside him. He smiled at them all, showing off his big teeth.

"Did we say you could sit here?"

Simon jerked his head towards Alisha, surprised to hear her voice. It was harsh, which Simon decided fit her well.

"I mean," the Irish boy began, weighing his hands in the air, his eyebrows raised, "nobody said I couldn't."

Alisha scoffed. "Yeah, because you didn't give anyone a chance to tell you to fuck off."

His mother swore a lot. So did her boyfriends. But Simon had never heard this kind of language exit the mouth of an eleven-year-old. He found it exhilarating, just listening to the foul word fall from her lips.

"Ooh, she's feisty," the boy said. "I like it."

Alisha responded by sticking two fingers towards the Irish boy's face. He only laughed in response.

"Who are you, exactly?" Curtis asked the boy, leaning around Simon.

"Me?" the boy asked, as if Curtis could have been speaking to anybody else. "Oh, I'm Nathan Young. Pleased to make your acquaintance." He extended a long hand over Simon towards Curtis, who stared at Nathan, bewildered, until he retracted the offer. Unperturbed, Nathan swung his head around to face the girls and smiled broadly. "So, who's excited to learn some magic shit?"

* * *

 **A/N:** If you're interested in finding out more, don't hesitate to drop me a line! With this kind of story, it might be nice to have some feedback. As always, don't feel pressured. Asking for reviews is so gauche.


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